


listening for echoes

by sinequanon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Abduction, Alive Hale Family, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Hale Fire, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Child Derek, Elemental Stiles, Future Fic, Hurt Peter, Hurt Stiles, Magical Stiles Stilinski, Memory Loss, Multi, Near Death Experiences, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Nogitsune, Spells & Enchantments, Werewolf Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-08-30 21:44:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 17,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8550232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinequanon/pseuds/sinequanon
Summary: Twelve short, unrelated fics featuring mostly non-human Stiles in various relationships.
1: Peter is the alpha, and Stiles is the new deputy he can't stay away from. (Peter/Stiles)2: Stiles leaves Beacon Hills; most of his friends aren't pleased. (Lydia/Stiles)3: The old gods are rising; Stiles and Lydia are ready for them. (Lydia/Peter/Stiles)4: Evidently, werewolves don't believe in dragons. (Peter/Stiles)5: Stiles is haunted by his past; Peter and Deucalion try to help. (Deucalion/Peter/Stiles)6: The world ends, but Peter makes it out all right. Eventually. (Peter/Stiles, past Derek/Stiles)7: The Hale children come across an elemental in the woods. (pre-Derek/Stiles)8: Stiles was an impossible boy in more ways than one. (pre-Peter/Stiles)9: Stiles is hit with a spell not meant for him, and has to suffer the consequences. (pre-Peter/Stiles)10: Nobody cares when Gerard Argent is murdered. (pre-Peter/Stiles)11: It takes Stiles's almost-death to lead Peter to the home he'd never thought he'd have. (Peter/Stiles)12: The McCall pack is not quite what the Hales were expecting. (Peter/Stiles)
5/9/17: Added chapters 11-12





	1. heart like wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Stiles is the newest resident of Beacon Hills. Peter and the pack want to keep the werewolf secret from him to keep him safe, but it turns out that the deputy has a few secrets of his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Tags: AU, Peter/Stiles

Peter wanted. He hungered.

The new young man in town was exquisite: wit and wisdom tied up in a pretty package that the alpha couldn't wait to open.

Unfortunately, he was ignorant of the supernatural, and Peter was loathe to pull him into unnecessary danger, no matter how much he longed to sink his teeth into Stiles’s flesh.

It was bad enough that the new deputy had become fast friends with Scott; he had somehow managed to impress Lydia and Erica as well, which meant that Peter was receiving nearly constant updates on Stiles's whereabouts.

(According to his pack, he was the brother Scott had never had, he could carry on an appropriately intelligent conversation with Lydia, and he wasn't afraid to have fun with Erica.

He’d be an asset to the pack, Derek said. Even Boyd seemed to like him.)

Peter had been contemplating appropriate (and a few inappropriate) ways to get arrested for weeks, just to spend more time with the man. He didn't even care that Cora laughed at him.

He shouldn't be this interested in one human deputy, yet the universe had conspired to put Stiles in his path at every opportunity. If he wanted coffee, Stiles was sitting in the corner of Peter's favorite shop. If he needed some light reading, Stiles was chatting with Mrs. Earnest in front of the library. He had even encountered the young man on his last visit to Deaton, as the deputy had been checking up on a recently rescued kitten. Each time they met, it grew more difficult to walk away until Peter was practically desperate to get closer to a man he’d only spoken to a handful of times.

Even worse, Peter was fairly certain that his interest in the other man wasn't one-sided. Stiles was polite and warm with everyone, but very few people regularly saw the sarcasm that the man kept on a short leash, or the carefully-banked anger in his gaze when dealing with unrepentant lawbreakers.

Still, Stiles was blissfully human, and Peter had every intention of keeping him that way--even with his wolf’s displeasure constantly scratching at his insides.

Peter could all too easily picture the good deputy dead at the hands of the coming alpha pack, either because he’d been called out to investigate some odd disturbance, or because Deucalion found out about Peter’s interest in the human and killed him for sport.

Neither option was acceptable.

Surprisingly, Cora was the only one to tease him about his infatuation with Stiles, perhaps because the others found him as fascinating as their alpha did, though for different reasons.

(If any of them were interested in being more than friends with Stiles, none of them were stupid enough to say so in front of Peter. Peter, however, was masochistic enough to begin following the deputy around town; ostensibly to protect him from the alpha pack, but mostly as an excuse to breathe in the human’s presence.)

“Despite the way Scott makes it sound, we don't actually see Stiles very often,” Erica told him one day. “He works, and he sleeps, that's pretty much it; we’ve only managed to get him out in public for more than an hour three times in the last two months. The coffeehouse and the library don't count.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

Erica grinned. “Stiles deserves to have _someone_ rock his world; even if that someone is a werewolf. You need to make a move.”

<> <>

Seriously?

Stiles rolled his eyes from his corner booth as he watched Scott and Lydia try to have a nonverbal conversation at the counter where they were picking up their drinks. He pretended not to notice the furtive glances they sent in his direction: first, because it was none of his business; and second, because he really didn't care about whatever they might be hiding.

He wanted to tell them that he had zero interest in getting involved with the supernatural shenanigans of Beacon Hills, but that would mean answering questions about how he knew about the supernatural in the first place, and he had no intention of sharing that information anytime soon.

Better to play ignorant than to be pulled into the nonstop drama of the Hale pack. Stiles liked each of them as individuals, but as a pack they were more trouble than they were worth. Truly, it was amazing that the town was still standing.

He probably should have known better than to take a position in such a small town, but he had felt the urge to come here, and he was old enough to trust his instincts about such things.

His decision had been a good one. Overall, he liked the town, his apartment, and his coworkers.

The attention of Peter Hale--werewolf or no--was a nice bonus.

Even though Stiles wasn't intentionally doing anything to attract Peter, he wasn't exactly going out of his way to push the man away, either. Peter was driven, intelligent, and charismatic, and Stiles couldn't help but be drawn to him.

Their interactions over the past few months had been as interesting as they were random: at the store, around town, in the park. Stiles was fairly certain that Peter and Derek had been in the process of burying something when he came across them while patrolling the Preserve his second week in town; thankfully, the two men had done a good enough job of covering their tracks that Stiles could reasonably play dumb about the situation.

Each conversation that Stiles had with Peter further piqued Stiles's interest until he found himself looking forward to seeing the alpha. The hungry looks that Peter occasionally shot him when he thought Stiles wasn't looking only cemented the deputy's fascination with the wolf; Stiles always had admired passionate people the most.

To have that passion directed at him was an exhilarating feeling, and not something that Stiles felt much anymore. It was almost enough for him to tell Peter his history.

Almost.

Of course, every time he came close to mentioning it, he would catch someone from the pack attempting to be sneaky, inadvertently reminding him of why he gave up all this nonsense years ago.

(Of course, his brothers would say that his career in law enforcement would suggest that he wasn't quite as ready to give everything up as he said. He would say that he just had a strong sense of justice, that's all.)

Scott and Lydia glanced at him one more time before scurrying out the door, no doubt to fight the latest monster-of-the-week.

Stiles would leave them to it as long as the monster in question stayed out of his way.

<> <>

Stiles considered the chaos before him with a discerning eye. Werewolves could be so messy--especially when pieces of them were strewn about the warehouse.

It served the idiots right, though, for biting him. Frankly, the wolves were lucky their deaths had been so quick; if Stiles had been conscious during the biting and the clawing portion of the evening, their deaths would have been much slower, and even more painful.

Oh, well.

He scoffed as he surveyed the room. Human body or no, he still couldn't believe they’d managed to catch him that easily. Then again, he’d assumed that they wouldn't have resorted to sneaking up behind him. Stiles appreciated stealth as much as the next person, but they were werewolves. They should have just mauled him and been done with it.

They had certainly recognized their mistake in the end.

So, what to do now?

They weren't expecting him at the station on his day off, but he had been gone long enough that any other interested parties had likely noticed his absence.

Peter would be upset at having missed all of the excitement, of course, and irritated at his abduction; Stiles had no doubt that the upcoming temper-tantrum would be as adorable as it was terrifying.

He was actually sort of looking forward to seeing who would find him first: the pack or his brothers? Either way, the reactions would be interesting.

He didn't have to wait long for the answer.

“Hello, brother. You always did have a flair for the dramatic.” A pale, tow-headed man about Stiles's age stepped gracefully out of the shadows next to the deputy. Without waiting for Stiles to acknowledge him, he reached out and pulled Stiles into a welcoming hug.

Stiles squawked at Death, but only half-heartedly pushed him away. Stiles was glad to see him, despite the circumstances; it had been far too long since they’d last been together.

“The others?”

“Famine rests, as you did,” his brother answered, turning Stiles this way and that to search for any lingering injuries. As expected, the bite marks and scratches had almost entirely vanished.

“I'm fine, you know,” the brunette reminded him.

Death shot him a knowing look. “You weren't, though, which is how you got into the mess in the first place. Honestly, consorting with werewolves. You should know better.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “You know I'm not interested in dalliance,” Stiles said, stepping to the side so his brother could deal with the mess. A casual blink later, and all evidence of the presence of the Alpha Pack had vanished.

“I know,” the man said drolly. “And since you're not interested in building an army, I have to wonder what your plans are for Peter Hale.”

“He’s the one who’s been watching me,” Stiles pointed out. “But, to be honest, we have quite a bit in common.”

_Sarcasm, cleverness, past anger issues_ …

“Have a care, brother--” Death warned, but whatever else he might have said was lost when the pack burst into the warehouse.

They stopped short at the sight of Stiles with someone who was not the alpha pack. Peter and Lydia both looked suspicious, but the rest of them just looked relieved that their friend was unharmed.

Lydia looked from Stiles to his brother with narrowed eyes. “Who are you?”

Death smiled indulgently, hand still resting on Stiles's shoulder. “You know who I am, Lydia Martin.”

“I am become death, the Destroyer of worlds,” Peter murmured, and the other turned to him in surprise. “That’s who you are, isn't it? How do you know Stiles?”

“My brother's names are as many as mine,” Death said.

“Death is your brother?” Scott looked seconds away from darting forward and grabbing Stiles away from the tow-headed man. “What does that mean?”

“Who are you?” Isaac asked at the same time. “What are you?”

Stiles smiled serenely as he watched Peter mentally put the pieces together. “Oh, I've been everyone, really,” he told the pack. “I've been gods and monsters, heroes and tricksters,” he chuckled fondly. “I was even King of the Cats for a little while.”

“So you’re not human?” Erica sounded inordinately thrilled by the revelation.

“But what happened to the alphas?” Isaac asked.

Stiles exchanged a glance with his brother and shrugged. “They killed each other,” he admitted.

“How? Why?”

“They were driven mad by the lust for power, the thirst for violence.” Stiles smirked at the Hale pack. “I gave them exactly what they wanted.”

“What, death?”

“No,” Peter answered, eyes glowing red as he stared at Stiles, “he showed them War.”

Stiles's smirk grew. “My purview is not simply guns and bombs,” the Horseman cautioned. “It is triumph and despair, brotherhood and betrayal,” his eyes flicked to the alpha, “passion and hatred.”

He grinned at the possessiveness in Peter’s gaze, even now.

The others looked equal parts fascinated and nervous.

“Don't worry,” he reassured them, “Our time has not yet come.”

“Trust Uncle Peter to fall in love with one of the harbingers of the apocalypse,” Cora groaned, but she was smiling as she said it.

“Oh, this is going to be exciting,” Peter breathed.

Stiles rolled his eyes, but couldn't help but agree.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from the poem "The Triumph of Time" by Algernon Charles Swinburne.
> 
> The pulse of war and passion of wonder,  
> The heavens that murmur, the sounds that shine,    
> The stars that sing and the loves that thunder,  
> The music burning at heart like wine


	2. shake the grass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles deserves to live without worrying about possibly dying all of the time, no matter what his friends think.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Tags: AU, Alive Hale family, Lydia/Stiles (implied)
> 
> So, I wrote this in response to another fic that I can't remember the title or author of. In it, Stiles leaves BH to live a normal life, and when he returns years later, the pack is angry and wants Stiles to basically grovel at their feet and prove his worth to them.
> 
> It made me angry, and I think this fic kind of reflects that, but maybe someone will like it anyway. It does have a happy ending, but it's kind of abrupt.
> 
> (Warning: There are a couple of swear words in this, so don't read this if that bothers you.)

Movies and books are full of stories of people who left their homes behind, only to return months or years later to deal with the fallout of their decisions. No matter how good the justification for leaving was at the time, the people left behind are mostly mad and upset, and rail against the hero for abandoning them.

Part of that is narrative arc, and part of that is bullshit.

Stiles didn't leave in the middle of a fight. He didn't leave when Scott first turned, and he didn't leave the pack defenseless against the kanima or the alpha pack or any of the other monsters. He didn't even leave during the brief period of time when the dead in town outnumbered the living, but he did eventually leave.

He wanted to breathe. He deserved to breathe. So he did.

<> <>

Things had been quiet for a month. Scott and the other wolves were slowly being absorbed into the Hale pack, and Stiles and Lydia, who were arguably the heart and brains of the McCall pack, slipped into afterthought. Kira tried to bridge the gap between the two groups, but the wolves were remarkably oblivious.

Lydia went to Massachusetts for a math conference, was offered a job, and never came home. No one had really expected Lydia to stay in Beacon Hills, so her choice wasn't much of a surprise. Stiles and Kira were the only ones who kept in touch with her.

Six weeks after Lydia left California, so did Stiles.

(Kira kept in touch with them both.)

<> <>

Stiles looked around at the angry faces of his former packmates and sighed. He knew he shouldn't have let her talk him into coming home, even if it was for his dad's wedding. He knew that his dad and Melissa understood. Hell, even Talia understood, and had supported his decision. He didn't understand why his friends hated him for protecting himself.

“You had no right--”

Stiles scoffed at the look of betrayal on Scott’s face. “Damn it, Scott. You know what right Lydia and I have? We have the right to live. However and wherever we want to. We didn't abandon you. We didn't leave you bleeding on the side of the road. Anything you may have fought while I was gone had nothing to do with me.”

“We needed you!” This from Jackson, who, as far as Stiles knew, had never liked him or cared in any way about what Stiles’s life. He had no right to be angry that Stiles had left. Neither did Isaac, who was sneering in his direction.

“What exactly did you need me for? A ride? Research? Moral support?” He scoffed. “Your problem was that I didn't wait around for you.” He glanced at Erica, who was intently studying her nails, and Allison, who was frowning at him. “You assumed that I would always be there when you needed something, and that you could ignore me otherwise. I suppose it's partially my fault because I let it happen, but…”

“Well, you're back now, so you can make it up to us,” Scott said confidently.

Derek, who had been lurking in the corner, snorted and rolled his eyes. “He only came back for the wedding, Scott. He’s staying with Peter, you know that.”

Frankly, Stiles was glad for the Hales’ assistance. It was hard enough coming home without seeing Scott and the others at every turn. Stiles and Lydia might not have ever joined the Hale pack, but Talia looked out for them just the same.

“Do you see Lydia very often?” Allison asked suddenly, doing her best to dispel the tension.

“Pretty much.” He could see Kira trying not to grin out of the corner of his eye. “She wanted to come,” mostly to knock some sense into people “but the doctor told her ‘no unnecessary stress’”.

Everyone's eyes grew wide, and Allison let out a tiny gasp. “Is she all right?”

Before he could answer, Laura walked in like she owned the place, took one look around the room, and deposited herself in Stiles's lap. “Hey, stranger. How's the missus?” She looked around in mock innocence. “Am I interrupting something?”

Stiles snorted. “She's on bed rest, so we're both going nuts.”

“Mom wants you to come by so she can give you a bunch of baby stuff. If you and Lydia don't want it, you can throw it out. Dad will ship the crib to you as soon as it's done.”

Stiles looked at Laura in surprise, then turned to Derek, who shrugged. “It's no big deal,” the werewolf said.

“Are you kidding me? You're making us a crib. I'd get up and hug you if I could move my legs.”

In response, Laura somehow made herself even heavier while the rest of the room exploded into sound as they caught up to the conversation.

“You and Lydia?”

“But you didn't go to Massachusetts!”

“You're married?”

“Lydia's pregnant?”

“You're married to Lydia?”

“YOU’RE MARRIED TO LYDIA?” Jackson’s voice cut above all of the others.

Scott looked around at the shocked faces of his pack and noticed that Kira didn’t look surprised. “I kept in touch with both of them,” the kitsune told them plainly. “I’m actually going back with Stiles at the end of the week so I can see Lydia before the babies are born.”

“Babies? As in, more than one?”

Stiles rolled his eyes, and Laura elbowed him in the side. “Lydia and I met up again a couple of years ago,” he explained. “One thing led to another, and we're going to have twins in a couple of months. Both boys.”

“But you...what happened?” Scott asked, confused.

“You essentially joined the Hale pack, and that's great, it's what you werewolves needed,” he sighed. “Lydia and I needed something different, and we happened to find it together, away from here. That's life, Scott. I won't apologize for it.”

Scott was quiet for long enough that Stiles started to worry that he was going to walk out without saying anything. “Can...can I at least come visit when the babies are born?”

Stiles grinned. “Of course. You're still my brother, you know.” He pushed Laura off his lap so he could pull Scott into a crushing hug. “You can come back with Kira if you want. Just be prepared to face the wrath of Lydia.”

Scott's smile was small but blinding. “I can live with that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter is from the poem "And the Days Are Not Full Enough" by Ezra Pound.
> 
> And the days are not full enough  
> And the nights are not full enough  
> And life slips by like a field mouse  
> Not shaking the grass.
> 
> (In case anyone is curious, the poems that I use for titles are chosen after the story is finished, not used as prompts. Sometimes, it takes a while to find the right poem, but I like poetry, so that's okay.)


	3. hooded

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lydia and Stiles are much more than they seem. Peter finds them fascinating.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Tags: AU, Lydia/Stiles, Lydia/Peter/Stiles
> 
> I wasn't going to post this one this week, but with the last one being such a downer, I thought I'd try to make up for it. Enjoy!

Stiles liked the Rangers. They were a good group--small, human, but mighty--dedicated to protecting the rights of supernaturals around the country. There were far too few Rangers for the amount of territory they had to cover, but people respected them and looked to them for leadership amidst the still-fragile peace between humans and nonhumans.

Lydia called them quaint and naive, but Stiles thought she just lacked a sense of adventure.

Stiles had liked every Ranger he’d ever met, despite the organization’s continued efforts to bribe both he and Lydia into working for them. It was annoying, to be sure, but Stiles couldn't fault them for trying to recruit two intelligent, driven, and passionate people into their admittedly tiny hands. It didn't help that Lydia kept toying with them by pretending to consider their increasingly fantastic offers.

Unfortunately for them, neither he nor Lydia were cut out to be Rangers for two reasons: one, the two of them had bigger problems to deal with than squabbling supernaturals; and two, their so-called humanity was tentative at best.

There was one thing that the pair knew for certain: all of the conflict and emotion from the fighting was stirring things best left in peace. The old ones were rising, both friend and foe, and would be making their presences felt all too soon in an already fragile world.

Stiles and Lydia were waiting for them.

<> <>

_Six months later_

“What exactly is going on here?”

The Stilinskis let out twin sighs from their hiding spot as Johanna Cortez--Senior Ranger, mage, and all-around nice person--strode onto the Hale property before Meredith’s body had even cooled on the ground, her assistant Jesse trailing after her.

It wasn't that Beacon Hills didn't need the assistance--Stiles knew that Derek had been trying to get help with the nemeton for months--but if Johanna knew the Stilinskis were in town, she would find them and look at them with her big doe eyes until they agreed to help with whatever problems she was currently facing.

Honestly, Stiles and Lydia should have left a month ago, long before the Rangers had even deigned to appear. They had so much more to do than help Derek deal with his newly-turned and rescued pack of teenagers; no matter how much he and Lydia had thoroughly enjoyed getting to know the young man's uncle.

Damn Peter Hale and his attractiveness. And wit. And cleverness. And charm. It had been far too long since they’d had a third, especially one that could match them so well. It was unbearably distracting.

Beacon Hills had been one of their more “active” investigations of the past few months, in more ways than one. All in all, the town wasn't that bad. Stiles liked it and Lydia didn't hate it, so the two of them had been counting the trip as a success.

The Stilinskis had only come to test the strength of the telluric currents, and instead found a mess of a werewolf pack in need of guidance.

As they told it, the Hale men had left their familial pack and traveled in search of territory, only to come to Beacon Hills when news of a rogue alpha biting young people reached them. By the time they reached California, five teenagers had turned into werewolves, one into a kanima, and the local hunter family was struggling to corral the group while fighting off an alpha pack and a dark druid with the help of a pair of former emissaries. Derek and Peter's arrival had been a blessing.

As soon as Derek had killed the alpha and claimed the territory, he had started asking for Ranger assistance; unfortunately, it had taken them nearly a year to show up.

Now, Stiles and Lydia let the shadows curl around them further at Johanna’s arrival. No one could see them without their permission, but the wolves could sense the electricity in the air--especially so soon after a fight--and there was no sense in exacerbating an already volatile situation by throwing power around and getting themselves noticed.

“Ranger Cortez,” Peter greeted drily. “I'm afraid you’ve arrived in time for clean up. Such a shame you couldn't have made it a few months earlier.”

Johanna raised her eyebrows at the subtle insult, but otherwise ignored the man. She surveyed the pack scattered around the yard, nodded briefly to Peter, and turned to Derek.

“Jesse,” she nodded to her assistant, “will see to the body while we chat about the threat to your territory.”

The betas immediately started grumbling. “Another one?” Erica whined.

“I apologize for the delay, but we've been dealing with a vampire/werewolf feud along the east coast for a few months now; we didn’t have the manpower to answer your call sooner.”

“What does that have to do with this new threat?” Derek asked frankly, leading the group into the house.

Once everyone was settled, Johanna began her explanation. “On the surface,” the ranger explained, “your troubles and the Bourbon-Casey feud have nothing in common. However, in recent months we’ve noticed that areas with the strongest telluric currents have seen the largest spikes in negative supernatural activity. They also seem to be experiencing a growing number of odd occurrences; for example, objects disappearing or being misplaced, or pets acting oddly.”

Only Stiles and Lydia knew that those oddities were generally minor gods shifting restlessly as they rose to consciousness for the first time in centuries; even if the pair might have mentioned it to the others, they had long since slipped away to tend to other affairs.

“What, there are ghosts now?” Isaac questioned.

“We’ve been a bit too busy to notice such minor inconveniences,” Peter scoffed.

“But not too busy to seduce Stiles and Lydia,” Erica stage-whispered to Boyd.

Both Derek and Scott choked on air, and Johanna literally brightened in interest at the mention of the Stilinskis.

“You know Stiles and Lydia? Are they still in town?” She paused to give Peter a once-over. “Why are they interested in you?”

Her voice was thoughtful, so Peter stamped down the flash of anger and tilted his head at the ranger consideringly. It was Derek, however, that growled out the question, “What exactly are you implying?”

Rather than getting upset, the ranger just grinned at Derek. “The Rangers have officially been trying to employ the Stilinskis for years; unofficially, those two have cleaned up a lot of messes that we simply haven't had the manpower to handle. They are notoriously hard to pin down, so it means something that they’ve lingered. I just hope they’re not waiting for something,” she added, almost to herself.

“Like what?”

Johanna grimaced. “Who knows? But it's probably not good.”

<> <>

Predictably, Ranger Cortez and her assistant stayed in Beacon Hills less than a week before being called home for some undefined emergency. To be fair, though, that week was one of the quietest that Beacon Hills had seen in years, and Johanna had paled so quickly at the message she received from headquarters that the pack had no doubt about the urgency of the situation.

Mere hours after the Rangers had left, the snow started, and continued until the town was practically buried in white. As soon as the weather cleared up enough to travel, the pack bundled up and went to Deaton's.

For once, the man started talking almost as soon as they entered the room. “There is a very old tale of king named Oisin,” he said, gesturing to a small, fragile book laid out in front of him. “Long before even Rome existed, Oisin’s kingdom enjoyed a peace and prosperity unlike any nation before or since. It was said that King Oisin possessed a box that contained all manner of powers and that one day, a curious child opened the box and out flew all of the powers that would eventually take root to be worshipped as deities all over the world.”

“That's ridiculous,” Peter scoffed before Derek could say anything.

“Is it?” Deaton asked mildly, taking in the befuddled looks around him. “So were vampires and werewolves, once upon a time.”

“I don't get it,” Liam said. “What does this have to do with the storm?”

“Our emissary is implying that some unnamed deity is responsible for the snow, except that they were called myths for a reason. There was no Apollo driving a chariot through the sky in Ancient Greece, just like there was no Amaterasu hiding in a cave and keeping sunlight from the people of Japan. They never existed.”

“There is power in belief, as you well know,” Deaton told them.

“And exactly what nation was this Oisin ruler of?” Peter sneered incredulously.

“I'm sure you’ve heard of Atlantis.”

Peter was literally shocked into silence, though whether he believed Deaton or not was anyone's guess. It was Derek this time who raised his eyebrows in disbelief. “There is literally no evidence that Atlantis ever existed.”

“I know,” the emissary conceded, “and if we had spoken yesterday, I'd likely have agreed with you. Yet there have been quite a few truths brought to my attention in the last few hours. I believe that Atlantis existed for the same reason I now know the name of the goddess that has been causing our recent weather issues.”

“How?”

“Because we told him.” Lydia's voice rang out from where she and Stiles were suddenly standing in the doorway. “Skadi is temperamental,” she said with a half-shrug, “but most people would be after waking up alone in a strange place where no one can see or understand you.”

“Where did...How did you get in here?” Erica squeaked, startled, and everyone turned to glare at her not only for the interruption, but for voicing their own concerns.

For his part, Deaton inclined his head to the new arrivals in a way that had nearly everyone doing a double-take. Deaton rarely showed open deference to anyone.

Of course, that might also have been because the two of them were covered in blood.

“You should see the other guy,” Stiles smirked at them, and Peter fell a little bit in love. Up until now, their conversations had been fascinating and the sex fabulous, but this? Peter fought the instinct to go to them, to fall on his knees and do whatever they asked of him.

(He may have started this game that the three of them were playing, but it suddenly struck him with absolute clarity that there was no way for him to win, and he didn't even mind.)

“Are you hurt?” Derek asked, shaking off his uneasiness and striding forward to check them over and pull them further into the room. “What happened?”

“George was getting a little antsy,” he answered, taking the wet towel Deaton offered him with a grateful smile. “But we’re fine; we just had to calm him down.”

Lydia only rolled her eyes as Peter took her towel and started wiping the woman off himself.

“Please tell me you killed that overgrown snake before he could accidentally start Ragnarok.” The wolves all jumped as a dark-haired man suddenly appeared in the room, and the Hales both pulled their respective Stilinskis behind them. “Just because the Norse are into all that noble death, warrior nonsense doesn't mean the rest of us should have to suffer.”

“I don't know why you're complaining; it's not like you and Sephie wouldn't survive,” Stiles said, pulling away from the overprotective alpha and grinning at the newcomer. “But no, we didn't kill him.”

Hades stepped forward to hug his friends, ignoring the growing sounds of growling as he did so. “Sephie’s half-convinced that the two of you are going to disappear if we take our eyes off of you.”

“You do realize that we're your elders, right?” Lydia teased, hugging the man back just as tightly.

“So, who's the guard dog?” Hades asked finally, glancing at Peter as he kept creeping closer, presumably to pull his lovers away from the strange man.

“This is Peter,” Lydia announced, grabbing their wolf and pulling him forward. “We're thinking of making him our third,” she and Stiles both threw the werewolf fond looks, “even if he is entirely too much trouble. I think he’d like the work, and he amuses us.”

“Does he?” Hades questioned, dark eyes sweeping the room, causing more than one wolf to shiver. “And the rest of them?”

“Excuse me,” Liam piped up, “but who are you?”

A smirk. “You’d know me as Hades, Lord of the Underworld.”

“What?” Scott yelled.

Derek reacted only slightly better. “Excuse me?”

It was Boyd, however, that asked the important question that Peter couldn't force through his own lips, though he did grab on to each of his lovers’ hands. “How do you know Stiles and Lydia?”

“My kind knows them as the God-Killers; tasked by King Oisin with keeping watch over his escaped powers. All of your petty fighting is waking everyone up, and I, for one, am grateful for it.” He shot everyone in the room a mischievous grin and sighed dramatically. “I've missed this place.”

Stiles quirked an eyebrow at his friend. “Did you come just to grandstand? Or did you actually need something?”

“I heard that Seth was already planning to make trouble,” he began, “but I'm sure you're already keeping an eye on him.” Stiles and Lydia both gave him disbelieving looks, and he sighed. “Honestly, I was bored. Cerberus is napping, Sephie’s busy with her mother, and I wanted to be the first to threaten the new boyfriend,” he admitted. “I don't have scorpions or other cool, poisonous things like Serket. You might want to check your bed for the next few nights,” he told Peter conversationally. “That is, if it's not otherwise occupied.”

“What does this have to do with the resurgence in fighting?” Derek asked, bringing the conversation back to the task at hand.

“It means that things like vampires and werewolves aren't at the top of the food chain anymore,” Peter guessed.

Isaac snorted. “That ought to make a lot of humans happy.”

“Only until they realize that after supernaturals are subjugated, the gods will be coming for them next,” Stiles said blithely.

“What can we do?”

“Protect your territory, make alliances,” Stiles began. “Don't make deals with deities, no matter how tempting,” Lydia finished.

“And what are you two going to do?” Deaton asked, eyeing the pair carefully.

“Well, we were thinking we’d have a nice dinner, tie Peter up for a bit,” the pair shared a grin, “and then go kill some things.” In unison, they turned to Peter. “Are you interested?”

“I thought you'd never ask.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from part five of the poem "The Waste Land" by T.S. Eliot.
> 
> After the torch-light red on sweaty faces    
> After the frosty silence in the gardens    
> After the agony in stony places    
> The shouting and the crying   
> Prison and place and reverberation    
> Of thunder of spring over distant mountains    
> He who was living is now dead    
> We who were living are now dying  
>   
> Who is the third who walks always beside you?  
> When I count, there are only you and I together  
> But when I look ahead up the white road  
> There is always another one walking beside you  
> Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded  
> I do not know whether a man or a woman  
> —But who is that on the other side of you? 
> 
> Also, there are multiple deities mentioned in this fic: Apollo, Hades, and Persephone (Sephie) from Greek mythology; Amaterasu from Japanese mythology; Skadi and Jormungandr (George) from Norse mythology; and Seth (aka Set) and Serket from Egyptian mythology.
> 
> Next week: Two more chapters for my other fic, and one (featuring dragon Stiles) for here.


	4. doors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evidently, werewolves don't believe in dragons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Tags: AU, Alive Hale family, Peter/Stiles

The only thing worse than being cold, Stiles thought, was being rudely woken up from a nice nap. Yet here he was, staring blearily as the wall of his home shook once again with that annoying noise.

He looked around in utter distaste as the noise only grew louder, and he resigned himself to going out and seeing exactly how things had changed during his nap.

Actually, he thought, roasted bison sounded delicious right now. Cooked and seasoned just so…

Right. After his investigation.

He willed his body into its weakest form--he’d found that people were much more likely to talk to him if he looked like them--and stepped outside.

(Honestly, he thought the whole thing was absurd. Why would someone talk to another that was just like him? He’d learn far more from someone completely different. On second thought, maybe that was why humans weren't particularly bright.)

Putting the thought out of his mind, Stiles set foot outside of his cave for the first time in two hundred years and followed the source of the noise, only to sigh heavily when he spotted the nemeton.

Of course it was a bossy tree that woke him up. Surely, there was some sort of Druid around to give it the proper care? Although, if the woman at the nemeton was supposed to be the tree’s guardian, no wonder it had called for him. A child was most definitely an inappropriate (and very messy) sacrifice.

“Excuse me,” Stiles asked politely, “but what are you doing?”

The Druid scowled at him briefly before smoothing her face into a fake smile. “I don't think that's any of your business. You should go now.”

Stiles felt itchy for a moment before it occurred to him that she was throwing magic at him. He sneezed. Truly, she must not be a very good Druid at all if she couldn't recognize a dragon.

“What an impertinent thing you are,” he said bluntly. “Perhaps you should go back to your studies if you think that feeding a nemeton nothing but blood is in accordance with your teachings.”

The woman set the frightened child aside and stood up to threaten him. “What would you know of it?”

“More than you, obviously,” he said shortly. He'd really rather not get involved in this business, but a negligent Druid wouldn't be good for anyone. He had no choice.

“The best way to cleanse a nemeton,” he began, allowing himself to shift into his most natural form, “ _is with fire_.” He grinned at her with his very long, sharp teeth, letting a wisp of smoke escape from his nostrils.

Stiles might have felt bad for the terror on the woman's face had she not been trying to harm a child. Instead, he opened his mouth and released a flame that consumed the nemeton and its false Druid in moments. The wind carried the ashes away, leaving fragile new buds that, given the proper care, would become a healthy well of power.

Job done, he took just long enough to make sure the child was breathing and otherwise unharmed before heading back to his cave and his nap. Bison was still on the menu, but napping was definitely the priority.

<> <>

Stiles woke to the sound of whimpers. Cracking one eye open experimentally, he was surprised to find a small wolf cub attempting to make itself comfortable on top of one of his legs. He sent a plume of smoke at it, but rather than run away, the wolf seemed to take that as permission to come closer, sniffing and licking at Stiles's neck.

Didn't this little wolf cub know that it was unwise to disturb a slumbering dragon? More than one unfortunate soul had ended up accidentally barbecued after startling one of his kind. Not to mention, it took forever to get the stench out of one’s cave, and Stiles was still too sleepy to be interested in cleaning.

The wolf was lucky that Stiles was no mere hatchling, but even so, he was not desirous of company. He swatted halfheartedly at the squirming wolf, pushing the small thing unceremoniously to the floor.

“Go home, little wolf. There is nothing here for you.”

“I wanted to thank you,” he heard a voice say, and found there was a girl in place of the wolf. A shapeshifter, then. Interesting. Were he not so looking forward to his nap, he might be inclined to investigate.

“Then, by all means do so,” he said drolly, “so that I may get back to my resting.”

“Nobody believes that I saw a dragon,” she added sadly. “Laura and Derek were making fun of me, but Uncle Peter said that I should bring you home with me so the family can thank you properly.”

Stiles sincerely doubted that a pack of werewolves knew how to properly thank a dragon, but the little girl watched him with such pleading eyes that Stiles resigned himself to staying awake for a few days at least and pushed himself into a more human shape to follow the girl home.

<> <>

The alpha, or at least the one who Stiles assumed to be the alpha--because one never knew with werewolves--was watching them shrewdly as they approached the house. Others were fanned out around her, watching as the girl half-drug the reluctant dragon into their midst.

The gathered wolves were obviously unimpressed by Stiles's human form, and had no qualms about sharing their opinions. “This is most definitely not a dragon, Cora.”

“He's not in his dragon form right now, obviously,” Cora defended, “but he saved me and got rid of Julia, so he's my friend now and you have to be nice to him.”

Stiles shot her a look, but she ignored him in favor of sticking her tongue out at her sister.

“I would like to thank you on behalf of my family for saving my daughter,” the alpha paused, giving him a speculative look, “whatever you may be.”

No wonder the girl had run away--she seemed by far the smartest of the lot. He sighed inwardly. He supposed he could look after her until she could take care of herself.

“He’s a dragon!” Cora said again, growling at the others’ disbelief.

Stiles smiled, all teeth, at the gathered wolves. “You do not believe in dragons, then?”

“Dragons died out centuries ago,” a blue-eyed man stepped forward, all predatory grace, and Stiles cocked his head in interest. “And you are hardly fearsome enough to be such a creature.”

Stiles would have assumed that other shapeshifters would know better than to simply use their eyes to see, but perhaps people had grown even more dull since last he was awake. He spared a thought for his poor wyvern cousins--it wasn't their fault they were so dimwitted and easily captured--before sighing. “I can assure you, I am not the last of my kind.”

“What about all of the tales about dragonslayers and knights and stuff like that?” a dark-haired boy asked.

He scoffed. “Fairy stories. Dragons are creatures of the earth, of dust and tree and water and sky. We sometimes choose to return to the earth, but we do not die. I was merely resting for a while.”

The man opened his mouth as if to speak again, only to be cut off by the alpha. “You said you were sleeping. What woke you?”

“The nemeton. It was quite displeased with the Druid’s tribute, and needed to be renewed lest it become a beacon for darkness.”

“You destroyed it?” the man asked, incredulously. “How?”

“He did it with his fire and it went whoosh,” Cora broke in, throwing her arms widely to imitate an explosion.

“I gave it back to the earth,” Stiles said simply, narrowing his eyes at the way the other man watched him. “It grows again.”

The clearing was silent for a few moments, and Stiles was still strongly considering taking the little wolf home with him when the man spoke again.

“Books say that the best way to befriend a dragon is to offer it new and useful knowledge,” he let his gaze wander blatantly over Stiles's form. “Perhaps we could share information?” The wolf’s eyes flashed in challenge.

“Perhaps I should just eat you,” Stiles said mildly, and once again started to change. He was pleased to note that by the time he was done, everyone looked quite convinced of his existence. The dragon smirked when he noticed that the blue-eyed man had gone a little gray.

“You offer me wisdom, but you are more men than wolves. I shall have to teach you, I suppose, lest the little one grow up blind and dumb.” He patted Cora on the head good-naturedly, and she grinned at him. He turned to Peter. “Still, I think I shall like you.”

The glint was already back in the wolf's eyes. “I'll make sure of it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from the poem "Doors" by Carl Sandburg.
> 
> In my brain, Stiles has been asleep for a couple centuries before the nemeton wakes him up. Also, I did a tiny bit of checking, and I am fairly certain that bison roamed in portions of northern California in the past. If not, I'm sure a dragon's hunting range would be fairly large, so he could fly to Utah if necessary. Also, if you've never had bison meat (or buffalo), it really is delicious.
> 
> Next week: Two more chapters for my other fic, and a Deucalion/Peter/Stiles fic here. Thanks for reading!


	5. windows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, Stiles's greatest enemy is himself. Peter and Deucalion do their best to take care of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Tags: Canon Divergent after 3B, Post-Nogitsune, Hurt Stiles, Deucalion/Peter/Stiles
> 
> This fic changes POV and tense a few times. It's a little weird, but the choice was purposeful, and I think I've edited it enough for it to not be too confusing. If not, please let me know.

If Stiles was in the right state of mind, he’d likely be looking at Peter with concern. He would be spending their drive looking for the reason behind the werewolf's solemnity and trying to figure out his true plans for the evening. It was a familiar game they both enjoyed, and had often played with each other.

At the moment, though, other than practically being carried to the car, Stiles wasn't doing much of anything. He did nothing as Peter guided him into the seat and offered no resistance as Peter leaned past him to fasten his seatbelt.

Had Stiles been in the right state of mind, he would have noticed the increasingly sharp glances from his lover, or complained that the wolf was taking an awfully roundabout way to get Stiles home.

Unfortunately, Stiles was not in the right state of mind, so he did none of those things. He stared blankly out the window, and remained silent.

<> <>

Peter raged at the unfairness of it all.

After everything that they had been through in the past few years, it was simply beyond the pale that something as banal as a siren could hurt Stiles that way.

Not for the first time, Peter cursed Stiles's inability to forgive himself for things out of his control. No matter that he and Duke had done far worse, or that Stiles only did what was necessary to survive, the two wolves had already spent far too much time saving Stiles from himself to lose him to the darkness over such a small thing.

How ironic (and infuriating) that the siren came and, with a single song, undid all of the progress that they had made. All of the courtship--all of the books, and chats, and careful give-and-take between he and Deucalion on Stiles's behalf--had been torn to shreds because Scott was too wrapped up in Kira's scraped knees to notice his friend being drawn into the water.

If Duke hadn't been in the area, it's entirely possible that Stiles would have drowned. Instead, the wolf ripped the thing's heart out even as Scott looked on in surprise, ignored the exclamations of shock as he gathered Stiles into his arms, and left without looking back.

Peter and Deucalion put aside their games to make sure that Stiles was safe and warm after the siren attack, but they forgot to consider an entirely different kind of damage.

It took only a week of nightmares about drowning, about being under someone else's control, for the human to give up sleep altogether. He forgot to eat, more often than not, and startled at unexpected sounds or movement. He looked at Peter and Duke like they could save him, though, and they rose to the occasion.

The three of them had been taking things slowly, but the two wolves all but moved themselves into Stiles's apartment after the first time the human hallucinated that his mother had come back to kill him. The Sheriff, although wary at first, appreciated their willingness to do anything for Stiles (except when it affected his diet); and Stiles enjoyed the company, even if he couldn't say the words. They made sure he ate, and slept, and generally put aside all of their plots to take care of the young man who had so ardently fought for their places in the pack.

(After all, such a smart, resourceful young man deserved attention, and the two of them were more than willing to provide it.)

Peter has no idea how Stiles came to be wandering in the preserve, blank-faced and shivering, but if Scott McCall had anything to do with it, he's going to rip the other man’s throat out.

<> <>

Stiles doesn’t know where he is, but he’s cold enough that his breath is visible in the air. He wishes he had a jacket, but the best he can do is keep walking, hoping that the movement will keep him at least a little warm.

He thinks he sees glowing eyes in the distance. The possibility of being afraid never occurs to him. Those eyes promise both safety and warmth.

He keeps walking.

<> <>

Peter was unsure what instinct had him driving to his apartment instead than Stiles's, but he didn't hesitate to let Deucalion know that he should meet them there.

By the time he reaches his home, Duke is waiting for them. Two sets of glowing eyes meet over Stiles’s prone form, and Peter tosses the other wolf his keys so that the door will be open by the time the pair reach it.

Peter doesn't question it when Duke rushes into the apartment ahead of him, or that he is already waiting in Peter’s bedroom as Peter carefully lays Stiles on the bed. Instinctively, he knows that the other wolf is already moving to get wet towels and the first aid kit he keeps just for Stiles-shaped emergencies.

“May I ask what happened?” The boredom in the man’s voice is betrayed by the cautious way he begins removing the human’s filthy clothing.

“Derek informed me that there was a hoard of pixies roaming in the area; I was running the perimeter.” He picked up the first towel and began carefully wiping away the dirt from his left side, keeping an eye out for any cuts or bruises. “Who knows how long Stiles had been wandering?”

“It can't have been too long, or we would have gotten a call from the Sheriff,” Duke reminded him, starting with the right arm.

The two of them kept up a steady stream of conversation over the next hour, knowing that their human always responded better when the two of them were there with him. Peter talked about his latest attempts to charm a gray dwarf out of a particular magical artifact; Deucalion talked about negotiations with a group of wandering betas currently staying in Utah. By the time the cleaning was finished, Stiles was still trembling slightly, but he was otherwise unharmed.

Somewhat reassured, the wolves curled around their human and waited for him to come back to them.

<> <>

“Stiles,” a voice says, insistently; it sounds familiar in a way that makes Stiles's heart thump painfully. A hand clutches his, and he spares a glance for his lovers, still sleeping soundly on either side of him. He focuses on the form that the nemeton has chosen.

“Did you find it?” she asks, eyeing him carefully. “Your light?”

Stiles shakes off brief flashes of Peter's eyes in the darkness, of Deucalion's coaxing words and gentle hands. He wants to sink back into the bed and ignore his visitor. “What are you doing here?” he asks instead.

“Be at peace, child. You have found your strength,” a quirk of the lips, “and the bond has been forged. The wolves have long been yours.”

He can't deny the truth of her words, even as he shivers at the implications. “Why?”

“Even the most brilliant fires need to be stoked, Stiles. Tested, and tended.”

The human’s scowl was impressive, and he clutched tighter at Deucalion’s hand in his. “Why test me? Why not Scott?”

“Why not, indeed?” was the nemeton's reply.

<> <>

“Kiss me,” was the first thing Stiles said when he woke to see his wolves staring down at him.

Much later, when they were lazing in each other's arms, Stiles told them about how the nemeton led him to Peter, his suspicions about how it did the same for Deucalion when Stiles was drowning, and what it might mean.

“It means that we will always find you,” Peter said, twining his fingers into the younger man's and pushing him back into the bed.

“And we will always protect you,” Duke added, pressing his lips into the hollow of Stiles's neck. “As you have done for us.”

“I know you will,” Stiles assured them. “I love you, too.”

Stiles would have liked some time to appreciate the rarely-seen smiles on his lover's faces, but his body was suddenly otherwise occupied.

He’d have to tell them again later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title is from Sonnet LXV by Pablo Neruda.
> 
> I needed the light of your energy,  
> I looked around, devouring hope.  
> I watched the void without you that is like a house,  
> nothing left but tragic windows.
> 
> so I wait for you like a lonely house  
> till you will see me again and live in me.  
> Till then my windows ache.
> 
>    
> Next week: Chapters 9-10 of my longer fic, and a standalone Bleach fic. Check it out if you're interested, and I'll be back here with a slightly dystopian Peter/Stiles fic the following week.
> 
> Also, in case anyone is concerned (or curious), I age up characters if necessary and/or alter the timeline so that anyone in a sexual relationship is over 18. Unless I specifically say that the characters are younger than 18 (and I always try to provide some detail(s) proving that they're adults), they have graduated high school and are over the age of consent.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	6. the wind's will

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The world ends, but things don't turn out quite as horribly for Peter as he had anticipated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Tags: AU, Peter/Stiles, past Derek/Stiles, Post-Apocalypse, Hurt Peter, Hurt Stiles, Magical Stiles

Peter came awake with a start, the sounds of distant screams ringing in his ears and the smell of blood heavy in his nostrils.

His body felt sluggish and slow, and it took more effort than it should have to turn his head away from the dirty ceiling that currently occupied his admittedly blurry vision. His head flopped to the right, then the left, as he took in the bare room with a sigh--there was nothing to give him any idea of where he was or what his captors might want with him, other than the obvious torture devices, of course. Hunters were fairly predictable that way, even after the apocalypse.

He supposed that's what he got for staying with his nephew when his instincts had told him to cut and run--being the good guy, especially nowadays, was often a one-way ticket to a shallow grave.

He and Derek had settled into an uneasy truce over the last few years--especially after the war turned most of the United States into wasteland and they needed to work together to survive--but Derek had enough to worry about with Asa trying to usurp his power, and not enough available men to justify sending anyone out to look for him.

Peter hadn't been the only person in the pack who had been both shocked and disappointed a half-dozen years ago when Derek had thrown away a great relationship with Stiles to take up with a woman who was significantly less skilled and much less popular with the rest of the pack. Stiles had chosen to leave town shortly thereafter, moving all the way across the country to take a new job with an allied pack that would keep him far away from California and Derek.

Six months later, war broke out, and Scott lost contact with Stiles mere weeks after that. The True Alpha had bawled like a baby for half of the evening at the thought of losing his best friend; Peter had spared himself a few seconds to mourn the loss of such an interesting and useful pack member, but had otherwise put the young man out of his mind.

He hadn't had time to dwell on the past, what with Derek's lovely wife concentrating more on personal comforts than the pack’s survival, and the world falling apart around them. That, coupled with everyone’s lingering distrust of Peter, had led him to volunteer for the scouting mission that had ended up with him in this regrettable situation.

Unfortunately, not even he could fight off a dozen hunters at once, and now he had the injuries to prove it.

There was nothing he could do at the moment, though; his head hurt and he could hardly move. The best he could hope for right now was that the hunters were amateurs, and would leave him alone long enough for him to recover and search for a way out. By the sounds of it, they had more than one person trapped here, and he let his eyes drift shut to the hope that his captors would keep their focus on whoever was screaming while he healed.

<> <>

Things were a little better the next time Peter opened his eyes. The screaming had stopped, and his head no longer felt like it was stuck in a blender. His body still felt heavy and strange, but he wasn't about to remain unprotected in the center of the room, so he carefully pushed himself up and slowly worked his way toward the wall--only to pause when he noticed an unmoving body in the far corner of the room.

Peter still wasn't at his best, but he was certain that he had been the only person in the room the last time he had woken. So, who was this? Another prisoner? A plant placed here to gain his trust? A warning against defying the hunters?

Unwilling to ignore a potential threat, even in his condition ( _especially in his condition_ ) Peter dragged himself closer to the opposite corner until he was close enough to roll the other person over, and startle at the face before him.

It was Stiles.

Peter let out a sigh of relief a moment later at the lack of critical injuries on his long-lost packmate. The other man seemed unharmed except for a large purple bruise covering the right side of his head where he had obviously been struck. The werewolf was taken aback by the sudden surge of concern he felt for Stiles, but he kept himself from pulling the human toward him in favor of staring at the other man for a few minutes, trying to figure out if Stiles's presence was intentional or accidental. If it was accidental, perhaps Stiles could be useful in an escape attempt; if it was intentional, Peter would have to figure out how to free the both of them without losing at whatever game the hunters had planned for him.

He ignored the wolf pawing irritably at his insides, and finally shook himself out of his daze and focused on the unconscious form before him.

Despite what had to have been a difficult few years, time had been kind to Stiles. Gone was the blush of youth, but it had been replaced by something undefinable; a sense of presence that Peter could recognize even in Stiles’s currently slack face.

Even now, in this new world, things rarely surprised him. Times were harsh, but Peter had understood the concept of survival of the fittest long before the apocalypse. He might not care for the devolution of the world, but he understood how it happened.

The young man in front of him, however, was another story. 

Stiles had always been clever, and loyal, but not even his attachment to Scott would explain his presence in this place. The East Coast had all but turned to rubble early on in the war, and everything east of the Appalachian Mountains declared a no man's land. Even if Stiles had gotten out of North Carolina before the fighting began, it still didn't explain how he had managed to make it back across the country, looking just as well ( _better, actually, if Peter_ _was honest with himself_ ) than he had when he left.

Peter had no doubt that the other man had grown stronger--he would have had to in order to survive the war--but traveling across the country was practically impossible these days. Undoubtedly, Stiles must have studied and honed his magical abilities enough to help him through the worst of the conflict, but that still didn't explain what he was doing in California in the hands of hunters.

A low moan brought the werewolf’s attention back to the present, and he watched as Stiles's eyes fluttered, then slitted open.

“Damn, these guys are getting on my nerves,” the young man groaned, bringing up a hand to rub his face. He stilled a moment later, and turned toward the other occupant of the room until their eyes met. He blinked.

“ _Peter_?” The incredulity in Stiles's voice was obvious, but it didn't stop him from trying to push himself up to get a better look.

The werewolf was at his side immediately, pressing the other man back down with a scowl and a flash of the eyes. “Don't move. You have a head injury. Do you hurt anywhere else?”

Stiles cracked a smile, but let himself be pushed back to the floor. “I didn't know you cared.”

Peter paused. Why did he care? Stiles would still make a good packmate, of course, but that couldn't be the only reason his wolf was clamoring for the man's attention. What had changed in the last six years to make the young man so compelling that werewolf hunters were after him? He was intelligent, of course, and not unattractive...

Peter snarled at the thought of someone else touching Stiles, suddenly ready to attack anyone that came through the door. Derek might be an idiot, but Peter wasn't; he wasn't about to let this opportunity slip away.

“You always were my favorite, Stiles,” he answered, eyes shining in the gloom of the room. “I'd never let anything happen to you.”

The younger man snorted and rolled his eyes. “You wouldn't let anything happen that you didn't want to happen, you mean,” he replied, but his tone was fond. His fingers brushed against Peter's arm, and the wolf shivered at the unexpectedly gentle push of magic into his system.

“I certainly didn't intend for us to meet like this," Peter said as he gestured around the room.

Stiles shrugged as if the hunters were of no consequence. “I've been here for about a week, already,” he said simply. "Their methods aren't fun, but they aren't anything I haven't seen before, either. Honestly, I was only waiting around because I kept having the feeling that something important was going to happen. I'm guessing that's you."

"Wait. What?"

“Now that you're here, I'll take care of things and we can be on our way," Stiles continued as if Peter hadn't spoken. "These aren't the kind of guys that know anything about magic, anyway." He gave the werewolf a moment to try and decipher that statement before he looked straight at Peter and flashed red eyes at him.

Peter gaped as Stiles surprised him once again. “That's impossible. You can't--”

“Be a spark _and_ a werewolf?” he smirked, obviously enjoying the shock on the other man’s face. “Yeah, I know." He dropped his voice down to a whisper and leaned in until Peter could feel the other man's hot breath against his ear. "But I won't tell if you don't.”

All at once, Stiles hoisted himself up, dusted himself off, and held out a hand to Peter. “Coming?”

Peter pictured Stiles, red eyes flashing and fingers crackling with power as he fought their enemies, and had to ruthlessly push down the wave of want that swept through him at the thought.

That would come later, after he’d proven himself.

He smiled, and let himself be pulled toward the alpha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from the poem "My Lost Youth" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
> 
> There are things of which I may not speak;  
> There are dreams that cannot die;  
> There are thoughts that make the strong heart weak,  
> And bring a pallor into the cheek,  
> And a mist before the eye.
> 
> When I started reading TW fanfiction, one of the tropes that I was never particularly interested in was werewolf Stiles. I have no problems making him (and the other humans) lots of other things, but with few exceptions (Guede's work comes to mind), werewolf Stiles isn't my thing.
> 
> This is one of three attempts that I made to incorporate Peter/Stiles and what I like to call "magic Stiles, hidden werewolf" into a story. The fact that I couldn't write any more, I think, just reiterates the fact that my brain can't handle Stiles as a werewolf. I hope you liked it anyway.
> 
> Next week: The final chapter of "in these pathless woods" and a standalone Vampire Diaries/Originals fic. I'll be back here the week after with two stories in "echoes", as well as the start of a new series.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


	7. gravitate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One day, the Hale children come across an elemental in the woods.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Tags: AU, pre-Derek/Stiles, child Derek, elemental Stiles 
> 
> This is a short one (I'm pretty sure it's the shortest of the lot), but I think it stands well as it is. I hope you like it as much as I do.

The boy seems almost transparent, and around his age. He looks interested in them, but not afraid, and Derek feels himself drawn to the other boy like there's an invisible string connecting the two of them. Derek knows intellectually that he should be wary of this unfamiliar creature, but all he can feel right now is fascination.

Laura, though, is not as accepting. Derek can feel the barely noticeable tremor running through his sister as she stands rigidly next to him. The boy won't notice, but it puts both Derek and Cora on edge. For all that he is dressed like a normal boy, and could be confused for a human out of the corner of an eye, things blow around him with an invisible wind, and he watches the siblings with an intensity that Derek finds mildly unsettling. It's not enough to stop him from wanting to reach out, though.

“We should take him home with us,” Cora suggests, watching the boy with open curiosity. She takes a bold step forward, but Laura grabs her arm, keeping her from moving any closer.

“He’s not a pet, Cora,” Derek admonishes. Even if the boy isn't dangerous to them, he would never be tame, either; of that, Derek is certain. He wants to run home and grab his Uncle Peter--surely the older man would know what to do in this situation--but he can't look away from the scene in front of him.

“We can't leave him out here by himself,” his little sister argues, turning to their eldest brother Anthony for support. “What if he doesn't have any family?”

Anthony is well-known for being the brain of the Hale siblings; unfortunately, it was no secret that he is also the softest touch. He eyes the boy, who has already started ignoring the Hales in favor of disappearing and reappearing among the trees like a ghost. As Cora speaks, the boy peeks out shyly from behind a large oak, eyes wide, and Anthony's face softens.

“It's possible he’s not he’s not even a child,” he points out weakly. “He could be hundreds of years old.”

“That doesn't mean he isn't lonely,” Cora counters, throwing in a pout for good measure as the siblings watch the boy disappear again. He hasn't come any closer, but Laura is still as tense as she was when they first spotted him.

“He might be dangerous,” Laura says, eyes scanning the forest for the elusive sylph who had once against vanished into the woods.

Cora scoffed. “We’re werewolves, Laura.”

Evidently, the boy gets tired of waiting for them to act, and an unexpected gust of wind blows a patch of leaves in Laura's face, making her jump in surprise.

Laura's sputtering punches a laugh out of Derek, who gasps in alarm as the boy suddenly appears in front of him. He is almost close enough to touch now, and Derek keeps his hands clenched at his sides to keep himself from reaching out and inadvertently offending the amber-eyed creature.

Ignoring the startled growl from Laura, the sylph glides even closer to Derek, head tilted curiously.

“Hi,” Derek says, unsure of how to deal with the errant elemental. At only an arm’s length away, the boy’s eyes shine with an unearthly light that unconsciously draws all of the wolves a bit closer, even Laura. He looks much more solid than he had when the siblings first saw him, but Derek has no doubt that the boy isn't human. He also has no doubt that he wants to learn as much as he can about his potential new friend in the forest.

All at once, the creature grins, pivoting toward where Cora and Anthony are watching him with obvious interest. The pair freeze under the sudden scrutiny, only for the sylph to breeze by them, the sound of disembodied laughter on the air. Within seconds, the boy is half-hidden among the trees again. Another peek, and the sylph vanishes altogether, leaving the wolves staring after him.

“We should come back again tomorrow,” Cora says finally, wistfully watching the area where the boy had disappeared.

Derek doesn't hear how his siblings respond, too busy thinking about what he's going to say to the amber-eyed boy the next time they meet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Traditionally, of the four types of elementals, sylphs and undines are female, but I felt that of the four, the wind elemental fit Stiles the best in this context.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	8. quiet dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles was an impossible boy in more ways than one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Tags: AU, pre-Peter/Stiles, memory loss, magical Stiles, abduction

Sometimes, in his dreams, he heard names in unfamiliar voices, calling out to him. Other times, he would see blurry faces, shrouded in shadow.

Part of him knew that he should recognize these faces, these voices, but another part of him wondered why none of these people had come for him.

 _You're lost_ , the wolf in his head reminded him softly. _Not even Finn and Freya can reach you here._

Stiles wasn't sure who Finn and Freya were, but it gave him some measure of comfort that the wolf believed that these people would come for him, if they could.

Since they couldn't, however, he was going to need to save himself.

Somehow, Stiles wasn't really worried about how or when he was going to escape. He was weak now, from what they had been doing to him, but he was growing stronger every day. It was only a matter of time before he figured a way out of his prison, and the fact that the guards liked to pretend he didn't exist would only help Stiles in the long run.

His captors rarely spoke to him, and never touched him, at least while he was awake, though the aches and bruises he had suggested that he had taken quite a few beatings while unconscious. Still, he could see the flash of fear in the eyes of the people who left him food, as if they were the ones trapped in the room instead of him. He didn't understand it, but he wasn't above using their fear against him, either.

They flinched at the sight of the tattoos covering his body, and the frightened moniker “ _cursebreaker_ ” reached his ears more than once--but it perplexed Stiles that they made no mention of the wolf living in his soul.

We are an impossible thing, the wolf had explained one night early in their captivity. They do not know of me, and so they only fear what they can see in you. The wolf huffed in derision. Soon enough, we will show them the error of their ways.

The wolf was right, Stiles knew, even without his memory. He could feel the power--deep and dark--a comfortable weight just under his skin. The term cursebreaker meant nothing to him, and yet the creatures pressed into his skin pulsed proudly whenever they heard it.

 _He_ _is right, master_. Alia, the serpent currently coiled around his wrist, flicked his tongue out encouragingly. She and the others always froze when his one of his captors came, but moved freely over his skin when they were alone, all but soothing his fears into nothingness. _It is nothing to for us to ignore those who would spite you for your gifts, but you have long been less than you should be. Soon, we shall raise you up to where you belong._

Over the course of his imprisonment, his creatures had told him small things from his childhood, of his parents and best friend Scott. They weaved tales of his adoptive aunts and uncles, and his uncle's friend Peter, who, unlike most, had never been afraid of his touch.

 _Find_ _Peter_ , the pair of griffins on his back urged. He could feel them moving up toward his shoulders, likely to get a look at his still-healing face.

“How?” he asked. “Why?”

The advice puzzled him. Shouldn't he be trying to get back to his dad and Scott? From what the others had told him, the whole reason he had put up with everyone else’s fear and revulsion was to protect the two of them. He should find them first, right?

Stiles hardly had time to register the multiple snorts from the others at the thought when there was a flash of light and a sudden flare of pain in his head.

He never felt himself hit the ground.

<> <>

He woke up in the bad room again, chained to the wall, staring up at the man who liked to hurt him.

“Tell me, boy, which one of these curses did you use to bind the Alpha?” The old man tightened the restraints until Stiles grunted with the pain.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” he ground out. He shuddered with revulsion as the man dug his fingers into the skin of one of his tattoos. Calla would be fine, of course, but Stiles knew that she wouldn't enjoy the touch any more than he did. “Especially considering I have a head injury that I'm pretty sure I didn't have before I came here.”

“It's only going to get worse if you don't tell me what I want to know,” the man admonished lightly. “After all, no one's going to cry over a dead cursebreaker, dangerous thing that you are. Frankly, I'm surprised the good Sheriff didn't drown you at birth. Why don't you make it easier on yourself and tell me what I want to know? I might even be persuaded to let you live.” He smiled magnanimously as he turned on the power connected to the restraints.

If Stiles hadn't felt like he was going to vomit at any moment, he might have rolled his eyes. There was only one thing a man like this would keep a cursebreaker around for, and it wasn't the goodness of his heart.

Cursebreakers were rare for a couple of reasons: one, it was an innate, rare magical talent; and two, cursebreakers by definition regularly dealt in dispelling gray or black magic, leading many ignorant people to believe that the cursebreakers themselves were evil. There were some parts of the world where cursebreakers were still drowned at birth.

The rumors about them varied from the plausible to the outrageous, but none of them were good. Some people believed that even touching a cursebreaker could be deadly.

Stiles had no problem encouraging that rumor for anyone who was stupid enough to believe it, even if it made him less than popular. This guy was evidently smarter than the rest of his goons, but he still avoided touching Stiles's bare skin. “Even if I did know something, I definitely wouldn't tell you. Your service here is horrible.”

“Have it your way,” the man said, and flicked on the electricity as he walked out the door.

<> <>

_Stiles ran, stumbling occasionally as he tried to avoid both the hazards littering the ground in front of him and the threat behind him._

_He kept running, despite the branches scraping his skin and the fact that his lungs felt like they were going to explode, because it was almost there…_

_And then he was falling forward as the monster tackled him from behind, biting and clawing at him with feral abandon. Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, hands scrambling weakly into the dirt, trying desperately to think of a way to get the creature off of him._

_It never worked, though._ (It hadn't thatnight, either.)

_The nightmare always got dimmer and more fragmented after that: the howl of pain from the werewolf, the long walk home in his torn and bloody clothes, furiously chanting “don't see, don't see, don't see” under his breath as he got closer to his house._

_In the dream, his mother was always waiting up for him, sitting at the kitchen table wearing the dress she had been buried in, a cruel smile on her face._

_Sometimes, she would pull him in for a hug, only to hiss horrible things in his ear as he got closer. Other times, she would scream in rage and throw things at him as soon as he walked in the door._

_This time, she sat him down and offered him a cookie. He took it, but he knew better than to eat it by now. “My, aren't we the talented little killer?” she inquired sweetly. “Two people in one night. What_ will _your father say?”_

<> <>

Stiles woke up with tears on his face and the certainty that he should never, ever tell anyone about his wolf.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title is from the poem "The Garden of Proserpine" by Algernon Charles Swinburne.
> 
> Technically, this is a crossover with The Originals, or it would be if it was longer. This was my second attempt at werewolf Stiles, and I might actually attempt to expand on this one some day. Maybe.
> 
> Next week, I'll start posting another chaptered crossover fic featuring Stiles and Lydia as twins, lots of werewolves, a couple of vampires, some magic, and a few surprises, and a one-shot TW/Avengers crossover fic here.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	9. no turning back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles is hit with a spell not meant for him, and has to suffer through all of the consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Tags: AU, pre-Peter/Stiles, Hurt Stiles, Spells & Enchantments, Stiles & Jackson friendship
> 
> This is more of a prologue to a longer fic than a complete fic in itself, but I wanted to post it in case it sparked an idea in someone else.
> 
> (For those of you read my notes, the TW/Avengers crossover I promised is posted, just not here. For the reasons why, check the end notes for chapter 10.)

"Damn it, Scott," Stiles complained lowly, shoving his phone back in his pocket. He took a deep breath to slow his pounding heart and quickly glanced around the corner of the building. He couldn't see the witches anymore, but considering how they had surprised him in the first place, he wasn't reassured.

He definitely shouldn't have let Scott talk him into coming home for Thanksgiving--no amount of turkey and stuffing could outweigh the potential for grievous bodily harm.

Honestly, Stiles wasn't even sure how they had snuck up on him. He wasn't a clueless teenager anymore. He knew how to defend himself. And yet, somehow one of the women had gotten close enough to touch him. He hadn't even noticed the quick brush of fingers against his arm in the busy coffee shop, hadn't understood what had happened until he started losing feeling in his fingers.

Stiles had known as soon as he had stumbled out of the coffee shop that he was in no condition to drive, and instead started trying to call people for help, starting with Lydia, who would be the most likely to answer, and ending in Scott. Now, he was hiding behind a building, sweat rolling down the back of his neck, weighing his options.

If he died today, he was totally going to come back to haunt his best friend.

Stiles's heart ticked up again as he glanced up from his hiding spot only to realize that he couldn't tell if they were still there because everything was too blurry. He dug his phone out again, but he couldn't focus and it slipped from his hand. He was still reaching for it when he heard them.

"What is a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?"

A patch of brightly-colored blobs hovered in his line of vision--the witches, he assumed. Not that he was going to say anything to them; thankfully, he had mostly grown out of his babbling tendencies a couple of years ago. If they wanted something from him, they'd have to work for it.

Hopefully, they'd get to it before he passed out.

"We're honestly sorry about this," a different voice said, "but we couldn't get to the alpha, so you'll have to do. If it makes you feel any better, you're just a carrier."

That wasn't ominous at all. "A carrier of what?" he asked, trying to ignore the black spots starting to crowd the edge of his vision.

"The spells, of course,” the voice answered cheerfully. “Just touch one of your pack, and you'll feel loads better!"

Stiles's last thought was to simultaneously hope that the pack found him, and that pray they wouldn't touch him at all.

<> <>

Stiles woke to a pounding headache and the sound of meowing. Deaton stared down at him, the inscrutable look on his face at odds with the tiny kitten in his hands.

“How are you feeling?" the man asked.

He groaned and wiggled his fingers experimentally. They felt heavy and foreign, but at least he could feel them. "How did I get here?"

Deaton motioned to someone just out of Stiles's line of sight. "Mr. Whittemore found you."

Jackson appeared behind the vet, unfamiliar concern etched on his face. "Hey, Stilinski. You're looking better--not so much like death warmed over."

Stiles frowned. The last he had heard, Jackson was in Paris, with no plans to ever return to Beacon Hills, or so Danny said. "What are you doing here?"

"Stop changing the subject," the other boy griped irritably. "How do you feel?"

“My head hurts, but otherwise I'm fine. Why?"

Jackson rolled his eyes, but not quickly enough for Stiles to miss the relief in them. "Because none of the pack can get back here to see you. Evidently, you're keeping them out."

"But why would I..." Stiles began uncertainty, before he paled so quickly that Jackson was worried the other boy would pass out.

"Don't touch me," he yelled breathlessly as Jackson took a step toward him. "I don't want to hurt you."

Jackson didn't move any closer, but didn't leave, either. Instead, he seemed to hover between anger and concern as Stiles fought to get his breathing under control.

After a few seconds, Deaton stepped forward instead, gingerly placing the kitten in his arms in Stiles's lap. Stiles stared at Deaton, then at the cat, before starting to pet the tiny animal.

When Stiles was calm enough, Deaton asked him to explain what had happened to him. Stiles told them about the witches, and how one of them had touched him, mentioned Scott, and called him a carrier. He wasn't sure what he was carrying, but he definitely didn't want any of the pack near him.

"What if I'm some sort of supernatural Typhoid Mary?"

"You said they mentioned looking for the alpha," the vet said, in what Stiles thought was probably supposed to be a soothing voice, but that just made him more nervous. When Stiles nodded, he added, "I think I know what happened to you, though your reaction to the casting is certainly unprecedented. This is a specific spell that is often tailored to target a specific pack.” He glanced at Jackson, who had started inching forward while the older man held Stiles's attention. “Mr. Whittemore won't be affected because he isn't currently in Scott's pack."

Both Stiles and Jackson breathed a sigh of relief. "That explains why Stilinski is keeping them out, but how do we fix it?"

"In most cases, the alpha is the carrier, who, as he touches them, spreads individual spells to each person in the pack. The alpha feels compelled to disseminate the spells very quickly, and the pack is incapacitated once the spells take hold.”

"I don't feel anything except the desire to stay away from everyone," Stiles explained, still absently petting the cat.

"Which is a bit of a problem," Deaton said with a frown. "Even with Cleo there siphoning off some of the magic," he nodded to the cat, "the spells have, for lack of a better term, metastasized in you."

At the boys' blank looks, he continued, "I'm afraid you're going to experience all seven spells on behalf of your pack."

Stiles couldn't keep the grimace off of his face. "Well, that sucks."

<> <>

Jackson volunteered to take Stiles home while Deaton explained the situation to the pack, and Stiles gladly accepted. When the boy moved to give Cleo back to Deaton, however, the kitten crawled inside of Stiles's shirt and refused to come out.

Rather than get upset, Deaton just chuckled lightly. "I think she'd rather stay with you, Mr. Stilinski. She can help you through the worst of the spells."

"My dad won't let me have a cat,” Stiles argued. “We're not home enough to take care of it."

"It's not that kind of cat," the other man said with a smile.

Stiles took the cat.

<> <>

No one knew how long it would take for the first spell to activate, how long it would last, or even what the spell would be, and it was driving Stiles crazy. All he knew for certain was that these spells were designed to make the pack confront things about themselves, and that those revelations were designed to _hurt_. In other words, he was going to have to deal with the manifestations of seven people's personal issues. He was less than thrilled about it, and fully prepared to send the Hales his months of therapy bills afterward.

Deaton had given Stiles a couple of books in addition to Cleo, but there wasn't much information to be found, mostly because packs that had dealt with this spell didn't like to talk about it, and tended to pretend it didn't happen instead, for good reason. From what Stiles could tell, this was the kind of attack that fundamentally altered the bonds within a pack--there were even a couple of accounts of people who were so traumatized by their experiences that they left their packs entirely. The whole situation was less than promising.

For his part, Jackson had announced his intention to go with Stiles as soon as Deaton had released him to go home. The werewolf could only endure his parents for a few hours, he said, and then he would be coming to stay with Stiles instead.

Stiles probably could have argued, but frankly, he was too nervous about the impending spells to worry about Jackson's sudden arrival and apparent concern for his well-being. Jackson and Cleo, the magical cat, would stay with Stiles until the spells had passed, and then they would talk about why Jackson wanted to go home with Stiles in the first place.

(Stiles just hoped that the magical cat would also be able to stop he and Jackson from killing each other in the meantime.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from the poem "Amor Mundi" by Christina Rossetti.
> 
> When I started this, it was going to be a longer fic, but I just couldn't make it happen. If someone else wants to try, I wanted to make this a Peter/Stiles fic with the following spells: Scott (empathy), Kira (invisibility), Lydia (truth spell), Malia (memory spell), Liam (obedience), Derek (undecided), Peter (true love's kiss/sleeping spell).
> 
> Or, if someone wants to spin the idea a completely different way, feel free.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	10. ruby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU. Few people care when Gerard Argent is murdered, the residents of Beacon Hills least of all. 
> 
> Fewer still know who actually killed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Tags: AU, pre-Peter/Stiles

Chris had no idea how long it would have taken them to notice if it hadn't been for Jackson.

The inquiry into his father's death naturally led the Hunter Council to Beacon Hills, but it was obvious that the representatives sent to question the pack and the California Argents were just going through the motions. After a single day of interviews, all but one of the representatives left, letting the last man deliver their findings to the whole of both families.

It was unorthodox, to say the least, but at least he and Talia didn't have have to try and prevent eavesdropping when everyone was already in the room.

The man impassively waited until everyone had situated themselves before addressing the Argents first. “To be blunt,” he said, “your father's murder was gruesome. It is evident from the wounds that he was mauled to death by something considerably larger than a wolf, though we don't know yet what that might have been.”

He turned to Talia. “We have no reason to suspect any resident of Beacon County of wrongdoing, as everyone in your pack was in territory when the incident occurred. The Council thanks you for your cooperation in this investigation.”

That said, he sighed, and turned to Chris’s mother Adrienne, the Argent matriarch. Even though Chris was the official face of the West Coast Argents, it was Adrienne who was ultimately in charge. “Off the record, no one is upset that Gerard is dead except for the branch out east. I know that you all keep things well under control here, but I would suggest that you keep a close watch on any ‘cousins’ from New England who want to offer their condolences.”

“We take care of our own, Agent Marsh,” the woman said with a polite nod, “and thank you for your warning.”

<> <>

By the time he died, Gerard Argent was well-known in the United States for using his Council authority to terrorize anyone who didn't agree with his opinions. Decades of blackmail and manipulations had assured that no one had the combined level of power and authority needed to depose him, and his black market dealings kept him well-supplied with both weapons and mercenaries who were willing to do anything for the right amount of cash.

More than one family was forced into hiding, including, for a time, Gerard's ex-wife and children. While Beacon County eventually became home to over a dozen Argents, it was only after five years of constantly running from one end of the country to the other, as well as a brief stint in Europe, that led to a fateful meeting between Sabine Hale and Adrienne Argent in a tiny cafe outside of Barcelona.

Three weeks later, an ironclad treaty was forged between the two groups, and they had been working to protect Beacon County together ever since.

<> <>

Allison Argent loved Beacon Hills. She loved the forest, and her cousins, and the Hales. She went to school and spent time with her friends and, apart from the occasional monster hunt, was a completely normal teenager.

When she was thirteen, her mass-murdering grandfather got a taste of his own medicine and ended up dead in a field in the middle of nowhere. Things were unsettled for a few months, but it wasn't very long before everyone had slipped back into their normal routines.

When Allison was sixteen, she was assigned to be Lydia Martin’s lab partner in science class.

Allison knew who Lydia was, of course. She and her friends were arguably the unlikeliest, most interesting group in school. Lydia was cool, collected, and whip smart, while Stiles--although equally as intelligent--seemed to prefer melting into Lydia’s shadow. Scott was unfailingly nice, Malia was blunt and unapologetic, and Kira was quirky and fun.

On paper, the group didn't seem to fit, yet Scott, Stiles, and Lydia had been friends since elementary school and hadn’t let anything pull them apart. When Malia came to town in middle school, Stiles immediately took her under his wing. When Kira moved to Beacon Hills freshman year, Scott had pulled her into their group within hours.

Being Lydia’s lab partner was challenging but fun, and before Allison knew it she spending one day a week at lunch with Lydia and her friends instead of sitting at the Hale-Argent table. Then two.

Then Scott was bitten by a rogue alpha, and Allison's life took an unexpected turn.

Rather than go to the Hales or the Argents for help, Scott insisted that his friends would have no problem helping him control his new abilities, much to Allison's confusion. Allison had hesitantly agreed to keep the secret about Scott’s lycanthropy, but told her parents about the unstable alpha werewolf prowling Beacon Hills.

Before they could so much as send out a search party, the rogue alpha was found dead with its throat crushed.

Allison fully expected Laura or Derek to call Scott out on his new werewolf status, or for Scott to slip up at school, but neither happened.

Life continued on, but Allison couldn't help but feel like she’d been pulled into the twilight zone.

Jackson Whittemore came to town at the end of sophomore year, mad at the world and suffering from a bit of a kanima problem. He was welcomed into the Hale pack with open arms, but Allison noticed that at school, at least, the boy migrated toward _Stiles_ , like Stiles was his alpha instead of Talia.

When Allison asked Lydia about it, the other girl just smiled enigmatically and said that her friend obviously had leadership potential. If Allison spent enough time with them, Lydia promised, Allison would doubtlessly see it, too.

Two weeks later, a group of her grandfather's old associates tried to kidnap her on her way to the movies with Kira and Malia, and Allison learned that her new friends had been keeping some big secrets. Malia’s coyote impressed her, Kira’s kitsune surprised her, but nothing prepared her for the shock of seeing a lion leaping over her head and ripping into her potential captors.

An hour later, after Lydia had outed herself as a banshee, gotten rid of the bodies, and they were all safely ensconced in the Sheriff's house, Stiles pulled her into a hug and welcomed her into his pride.

<> <>

Chris swam back into consciousness with a groan. His head pounded like a drum, and...why was he hearing the theme song to _The Lion King_?

He forced his eyes open to the sight of Jackson Whittemore chained on the opposite wall, his phone blasting the familiar tune.

The sound woke up Peter and a couple of his cousins as well, all chained to the wall as potential sacrifices for the darach.

“Will you shut that off?” one of the Hale wolves complained muzzily, only to jerk up with a growl when he suddenly realized he wasn't at home.

Jackson, however, just grinned. “I can't wait to see my alpha rip you to pieces,” he told the darach as she appeared.

“And yet, you are here and your wolves are not,” the darach said simply.

Jackson glanced at the Hales, then back to their captor, and shrugged. “Don't get me wrong. Talia Hale is a nice lady, but she’s not my alpha.”

Literally everyone other than Jackson made a noise at that, but the kanima was too focused on the woman in front of him to notice. “You know,” he said, grin widening, “you really should think about running before my friends get here. Our fights tend to get a little messy.”

The woman huffed, obviously unimpressed, and swept out of the room in overdramatic fashion shortly after rechecking their bindings.

Chris waited until the darach had left to address the cocky teenager. “Jackson, other than Allison, all of your friends are ignorant of this world. Surely, you don't want them in danger?”

A roar echoed in the distance, again startling everyone but Jackson, who smirked.

“Mr. Argent, you’ve met Stiles and Lydia,” the kanima said pointedly. “Would you ever use the word ‘ignorant’ to describe either one of them?”

Chris paused. No, he wouldn't, and based on the sudden stillness in the room, one one else would, either.

Another roar, much closer, followed by the sound of something ripping, and the smell of intense magic. The cellar groaned as the entire house shook, followed by complete silence and the smell of blood.

Moments later, the cellar door opened and Scott McCall and Kira Yukimura came down the stairs. The pair took one look at Jackson and started toward him, Scott reaching for the chains.

“Stiles is going to have to do it,” Jackson explained, angling away from his friends. “These are infused with wolfsbane.”

Chris and Peter exchanged a look. “Since when have you been a werewolf, Scott?” Peter asked.

Scott looked surprised for a moment, then abashed as he ducked his head. “It's been a couple of years now, Mr. Hale; since before Jackson moved to town.”

“How did you survive without a pack?” one of the other wolves asked, incredulously.

“I have a pack,” he defended. “Although, it's not a pack, exactly. Stiles told me it’s different for cats, but it works for us.”

“Cats?” Peter questioned.

“Us?” Chris added.

Kira grimaced. “You'll see,” she offered, just as four more pairs of feet began descending the stairs, revealing Stiles, Lydia, Malia, and Allison.

“ _Allison_? What are you doing here?”

Surprisingly, Allison looked to Stiles, who said, “They’re your family, Ally. I don't want you to have to lie to them.” He grabbed Jackson's chains and, with one good tug, pulled them from the wall. Then, while everyone was still gaping, he stuck a claw into the shackles and picked the lock.

He moved around, releasing everyone, while the rest of his pride helped patch up injuries and Allison told her father and the rest of them about how Stiles had saved her life all those months ago.

Stiles brushed off the both the surprise and the gratitude. “There haven't been too many more in the county since then,” he said simply, “but Dad’s deputies keep an eye open for me so that I can deal with problems as soon as possible.”

“Just how many _problems_ have you disposed of without our knowledge?” Peter asked curiously.

Stiles glanced at his friends, who shrugged.

“What do you consider a problem?” Lydia inquired instead.

With everyone patched up, the group moved up and out of the house, passing the mangled body of the darach on the way out the door. More than one man gasped, both at the ferocity and the familiarity of the kill.

Stiles waited until they were all outside before giving the group a sly smile. “Jordan will be here before too long to take care of the body, but I'm guessing that you guys have a question for me?”

“What are you?” a wolf asked.

“Did you kill Gerard?” a hunter asked.

“Will you marry me?” Peter asked.

“Shortly before his death, Gerard hired a two groups of mercenaries: one to burn down the Hale house, and the other to kill the Argents using carbon monoxide. He was moving in this direction; probably because he liked to see his handiwork in action. There was no way I was going to let a threat like that get into my town,” Stiles growled, eyes flashing.

Everyone took a justifiable few seconds to stare at the teenagers.

Chris thought of the unbreakable relationship that had been forged all those years ago between the Hales and Argents, and how these teenagers had hidden for years, working from the shadows. If Allison hadn't befriended them, if Jackson hadn't come to town, who knew if they would ever have known that they owed their lives to an eighteen-year-old boy.

He did the only thing he could think of and pulled the boy into his arms.

By the time Stiles was passed to Peter, Jackson was snickering, two of the girls were taking video, and Stiles looked overwhelmed by the entire scene.

“I was serious about the marriage, you know. I'd make an excellent treaty bride,” Peter snarked.

Stiles gave the other man a slow, deliberate once-over and laughed. “I’ll see what I can do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from the poem "Rubies" by Ralph Waldo Emerson.
> 
> Those of you who read my end notes may have noticed two things this week: one, I posted two extra fics here; and two, that I marked this as complete. I wrote and posted some extra stuff over the past two weeks, and I noticed that as far as hits go, those fics were more popular than I expected. My original intention for putting most of my short stories in "echoes" was so that I didn't have sixty or so small fics floating around, but I wonder if all of the different pairings listed in echoes doesn't scare some people away, or maybe the holiday fics got more hits just because people were on vacation.
> 
> In any case, for the next month, I'm going to post the things that would have gone into echoes as individual fics and see what happens. I'll likely start posting to "echoes" again if posting them individually doesn't make any difference.
> 
> Either way, thank you for reading!


	11. going home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes Stiles's almost-death to lead Peter to the home he'd never thought he'd have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Tags: AU, Peter/Stiles, Near-Death Experiences, Future Fic

Peter feels it like a rubber band snapped in the back of his brain--a frayed connection finally broken under the strain of distance and time.

He breathes through the tightness, but the ache only grows, and Peter has to inhale very carefully to restrain himself from going after Scott when he realizes exactly what has happened.

Scott, of course, carries on with the meeting like nothing is wrong; Peter has never wanted to kill him more.

He watches the others, thinking he may be the only one to feel it, but then he sees a frown steal over Derek's face, watches Lydia pale, and finally Scott gasps in surprise. Scott should know what it means, but he doesn't, of course, because he's never really bothered to learn how to be a werewolf beyond what Deaton would offer him.

(And Stiles, of course, but his isn't name that is ever mentioned in front of the true alpha. Despite the pain, Peter feels a surge of pleasure at the thought that Stiles isn't the only one suffering at the moment.)

“What is that?” Scott asks, breathing through the pain.

Peter doesn't even try to hold back the anger and the bitterness when he snarls, “Congratulations, Alpha. You’ve finally managed to kill your best friend.”

He doesn't stay around to find out what kind of damage his comment has done.

<> <>

Peter wasn't sure who had first planted the seed: the idea that they could protect Stiles by pushing him away. Every time it was mentioned in his presence, Peter would calmly remind them that Stiles was a valuable ally, and incredibly smart and useful to boot, but the rest of them ignored him in favor of their childish fantasies.

It was no surprise, then, that Peter was left out of their final, idiotic plan.

Had Peter known what was going to happen, he would've gone on the trip just to keep an eye out for Stiles, even though island getaways and communal living spaces had never appealed to him. At the time, the eldest Hale had counted himself lucky to be rid of the pack for a few days; unfortunately, he had severely underestimated Scott McCall’s particular mix of naïveté and ignorance.

(Or perhaps he gave the rest of them too much credit, because they were just as guilty as their alpha. The pack, after a lovely weeklong vacation in the Bahamas, all crept out of their rooms in the middle of the night and flew home without Stiles.)

Though, Scott assured him, they had left a note--and Stiles's passport--behind, as if that would make up for their betrayal.

No doubt, the puppies had expected Stiles to be angry, to brood, but they all believed that after a few weeks or months Stiles would bounce back into their lives as if nothing at all had happened.

They were wrong.

Instead, seven years had passed, and Stiles had yet to set foot again in Beacon Hills. He never called or came home, and--from what Peter gathered from his contacts--never lost touch with the supernatural world, either.

Now he was likely dead, and Peter laid the blame for the human’s death squarely at his former pack’s feet.

<> <>

Peter’s phone ringing in the middle of the night was such a rare occurrence that he had rolled over and pressed the phone to his ear before he was even properly awake.

“Is this Peter Hale?” the voice asked.

“Yes, what is it?”

“You are listed as the emergency contact for Stiles Stilinski,” the voice continued, unaware of Peter’s suddenly racing heartbeat. “He...he was in a bad accident, I'm afraid. He’s strong, of course, but you'll want to come straightaway.”

“He’s alive?” Peter didn’t even try to keep the emotion out of his voice, or question the way the person who had contacted him seemed to know Stiles.

“He’s not out of the woods yet, but we’re optimistic.” The woman paused, then continued, “he has a lot of people rooting for him, if you know what I mean.”

Peter didn’t, but he’d find out as soon as he got there.

<> <>

Finding out Stiles was comatose, but still alive, had been a welcome shock. Meeting little Aurora, Stiles’s precocious daughter, had triggered instincts in Peter he never thought he’d have at all. Getting to know the rest of the small town--including the large, fiercely protective supernatural contingent--had just made Peter laugh.

Of course, Stiles was accepted, respected, cherished. It was nothing less than he deserved.

Peter ignored every call or text from Beacon Hills in favor of sitting with Stiles and Aurora. Who cared if Beacon Hills was being torn apart by monsters when there was a small girl curled up on his lap? Who cared about the Beacon Hills pack’s distrust of him when he had his own tiny pack, right here?

It wasn't only Aurora that seemed happy with his presence, though. The local coven assured him that they were working overtime to help patch Stiles up, people regularly came by to see Stiles and distract Aurora, and an old man that was definitely not human periodically showed up to bully Peter into taking better care of himself.

The open affection was so novel that it took him a disturbingly long time for Peter to realize that he had seen clear and ample evidence of the supernatural multiple times since he’d arrived in town. After dealing with secrecy for so long, he wasn't quite sure how to, or even if he should, react.

The third time one of the human nurses muttered an offhand comment about nosy magic recalibrating already finicky machines, he couldn't hold back his curiosity any longer.

“Does everyone around here know about the supernatural?” he asked.

The nurse snorted and patted Peter’s hand. “Nobody's put an ad in the paper or anything, but enough weird stuff goes on around here that you’d have to be pretty dim not to notice. Don't worry, honey, you’re perfectly safe here. We protect our own.”

It took two weeks for Stiles to wake up, three for Peter to start courting him, and five for Peter to move in with the Stilinskis.

By that time, the new bond that had been forged between the three of them put every bond that had come before it to shame.

He never bothered to call and tell anyone that he wasn't going back to California, but Derek probably figured it out.

Eventually.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title comes from the poem "Good-bye" by Ralph Waldo Emerson.
> 
> So, I thought I'd add a couple more stories to this collection. It's possible that I'll add one or two more than this, but I found that I prefer posting them individually, so we'll see.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	12. the chase

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hales return to Beacon Hills after years away and discover that the McCall pack is not quite what they were expecting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter Specific Tags: AU, Peter/Stiles, No Hale Fire, Future Fic

Stiles loved Scott. Really, he did. Scott was a genuinely good person who believed the best about everyone and thought the world was made of sweetness and light.

It drove Stiles and Lydia absolutely nuts, sometimes, their alpha’s inability to see the bad in anyone. Like right now, for instance, when his response to the news that the Hales were returning to Beacon Hills elicited a, “Well, why don't we just share the territory?” from their alpha.

Scott's reaction prompted various responses from the rest of the pack: disbelief (the twins, who had dealt with shifting packs before); nervousness (Isaac, who didn't trust anyone other than _his_ pack); and boredom (Jackson, who couldn't be bothered to pay attention). Kira looked like she wanted to support Scott, but was too afraid of Lydia to do it openly, and settled for placing a reassuring hand on his arm.

“What if they don't want to share the territory, Scott?” Lydia asked archly. “Technically, they own most of this town.”

“I'm sure that they're not like that. My mom said she knew the Hales from before, and that they're good people.”

“That may be,” Stiles agreed, sharing a long-suffering look with Lydia, “but we're the ones who have been protecting this town for the last ten years. I'm not suggesting we keep them from their land, but don't forget to stand up for your own pack, Scotty.”

Scott shot Stiles a hurt look, but the other man didn't relent. This situation could be dangerous if it wasn't handled properly, and neither Lydia or Stiles was about to endanger the pack over something as trivial as protocol.

“If it will make you two feel better,” the alpha soothed, “draw up some sort of treaty, okay? I love you guys; I'd never let anything happen to you.”

“How long do we have?” Liam jumped in, eyeing Stiles like he was afraid that the Hales might try to make off with the human in the middle of the night.

“Deaton says they'll be here the day after tomorrow,” Scott admitted, ducking his head under the twin glares from Stiles and Lydia.

“I guess we'll be calling in sick to work, then,” Lydia muttered, heading into the kitchen to start on some coffee while Stiles ushered the rest of the pack out the door.

It was going to be a long night.

<> <>

Forty hours later, Scott, Stiles, and Lydia were meeting with Talia Hale and her brother Peter. Talia seemed kind and easygoing, but Peter glared at them enough that Stiles was vaguely afraid his face was going to get stuck that way.

The two alphas spent hours pouring over the treaty, only making minor adjustments, but that was to be expected, considering the care that Lydia and Stiles had put into the document. A few feet of town here or there seemed negligible to Stiles, but he kept his mouth shut. Mutual assistance, sure. Occasional running together, fine. Talia surprised all of them, however, when she graciously offered part of the Preserve to the McCall pack.

“Alan has had nothing but good things to say about you all,” she explained. “I'm sorry that you were all forced to deal with so much on your own--” her gaze slid to Stiles, who paled slightly, “and considering that you have been the ones caring for the nemeton, it is only right that you continue to be allowed access to it.”

Peter was less sympathetic, and he didn't bother to hide it. Having seen these people--true alpha or not--he had a feeling that Deaton had exaggerated their accomplishments. “Talia, if there's a threat to the territory, they literally have nothing to offer us, unless it's cannon fodder.”

Stiles snorted. Lydia rolled her eyes. Scott laughed. “Sorry, dude, but I'd bet on Stiles or Lydia in a fight before I'd ever bet on you. Werewolves are a dime a dozen around here.”

“Oh, really,” Peter drawled, disdain evident in his features. “Enlighten me.”

Stiles shifted forward in his seat and grinned.

“Stiles--” Scott warned.

“I'm just giving him what he wants, Scott,” Stiles smirked, before he leaned across the table and plastered his lips to Peter's. The wolf jerked in surprise and froze, before finally pressing forward and deepening the kiss. When Stiles eventually pulled away--his smirk in place once again--it took Peter a few seconds longer than usual to get his brain back online. He sat there, blinking stupidly, until Talia cleared her throat.

“Peter?”

Shaking himself, he glanced down. Drawn on the back of his hand was a complicated sigil that the wolf didn't recognize. Peter's lips curled back into a snarl and he sprung out of his chair--

Only to be yanked back by an invisible force that left him breathless and panting in his chair.

“You're very talented,” Stiles licked his lips with a cheeky grin, “but I'm more than capable of protecting myself and my pack.”

Talia was watching the exchange with interest and a hint of concern, and Lydia got the distinct impression that, no matter what Deaton had said about them, the Hale alpha was just now seeing them as a pack worthy of her attention.

(They’d had to be, for everything they had gone through in the past decade.)

Yes, the Hale pack had been justified in their need to get out of Beacon Hills after their brush with death, but coming back to town and expecting to pick up right where they had left off was both shortsighted and naive. The treaty was a good foundation for future interactions between the packs, but Lydia and Stiles were both well-aware that it was much easier to be agreeable when everything was calm and peaceful, and things were so rarely either calm or peaceful in Beacon Hills.

“Do you go around kissing and marking all of your new allies, then?” Peter asked, watching the other man carefully and telling himself that he was absolutely not attracted to the young man who had just magicked him without his permission.

Stiles could evidently tell what he was thinking, though, because the younger man grinned. “Just the unfairly attractive ones.”

“Perhaps next time, we should try it in a more intimate setting?” Peter asked slyly, ignoring his sister's warning look.

The look that young human sent him thrilled Peter, even as it made his sister shift restlessly next to him. “Maybe we could enlighten each other.”

“I look forward to it.”

<> <>

By the time negotiations ended, Peter had all but abandoned helping his sister in favor of staring at McCall’s mysterious Second. It was easy to see that McCall relied on Stiles and Lydia to be both more cynical and more practical than him, and Peter couldn't help but poke them a bit--with the pair absolutely rising to the occasion--when it became obvious that neither of them were the least bit cowed by Talia. A half dozen lost arguments later, and Peter was more than halfway certain that he was in love.

If it hadn't been so late when Lydia finally declared business done for the day, he would have asked Stiles out to dinner. As it was, he settled for staring hungrily after the other man as he and Scott crawled into a battered blue jeep.

“Just so you know, if you do anything to hurt him, I'll scream at you until your brains leak out of your ears. Otherwise, I think you’ll be good for each other.”

Peter's brows lifted, but the banshee had already swept by him by the time he had registered her threat. He'd admit, he had underestimated this pack; if the rest of its members were even half as intelligent and witty as Stiles and Lydia, Peter was going to greatly enjoy being home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title comes from the poem "Life in a Love" by Robert Browning.
> 
> Thank you to everyone who has commented, given kudos, or bookmarked this collection (and to everyone else as well); I appreciate your support.
> 
> Next week: I'll start posting a multi-chapter TW/Supernatural crossover, and there will likely be another little something as well.
> 
> As always, thanks for reading!


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